


it wasn't the burning so much as the loneliness (it wasn't the loneliness so much as the fear of being alone)

by notcaycepollard



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-10 23:24:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10449897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notcaycepollard/pseuds/notcaycepollard
Summary: She holds onto that. A brave girl, even when she’s afraid. Even when it hurts.It just makes you strong.





	

_i._

When she is very small, she falls off the monkey bars and splits open her forehead.

It bleeds a lot: she remembers that. Her hair is matted with it, snarled into knots. Sister Agatha cuts it short so she can see the wound, and that makes her cry harder. She wants to be pretty for her new family. What if they take one look at her and decide not to bother.

“Stop crying,” Sister Agatha says, frustrated. “God doesn't care if you're pretty and neither should you. Vanity is a sin.”

That’s what they always say: _vanity is a sin_. It’s not— that’s not why she cares. But she stops crying anyway; hiccups herself into silence as the doctor stitches her back together.

“Scars make you strong,” Sister Catherine tells her later. Combs her hair forward and trims her new bangs carefully to hide the cut. Her hands are very gentle. “You’ll heal, sweetheart. It just means you’re a brave girl.”

She holds onto that. A brave girl, even when she’s afraid. Even when it hurts. _It just makes you strong._

 

_ii._

She’s a brave girl, she is, but it hurts, it _hurts_. She didn’t know it would hurt this much.

_Help_ , she tries to say. Makes it to the door.

She doesn’t remember Coulson finding her, after. It’s Jemma who tells her about it, about how it happened: _you were dying. You were—_

When Coulson comes to the med-bay, Jemma is just finishing up. No bandages; she’s all healed up, almost. He knocks at the door, even though it’s open, and Skye twists to see him. Hisses in pain.

“That still hurts?” Jemma asks, concerned, and Skye shakes her head. Pulls her tank top down over the scar.

“It’s fine,” she tells Jemma, “just. Moved too fast, okay. I _promise_ , I’m fine. Hey, AC. You want something?”

“No, I just—” he starts. “Just came to check on you, actually.”

“Well, she’s a terrible patient, but she’s doing fine,” Jemma says. “More than. Whatever was in that serum worked miracles.”

“Yes,” Coulson says, troubled. “I know.”

“I can go?” Skye asks, breaking the tension, and Jemma smiles at her. Touches her shoulder, helping her off the bed. Skye’s careful, this time, not to bend too fast. She reaches for her sweater at the same time as Coulson does, and her hand lands on his, the warmth of his bare skin.

“Whoops,” he says, “sorry. Here, let me.” Helps her tug her sweater over her head, careful so she doesn’t pull at the scar, and his eyes flick down to her side just long enough that she knows he’s thinking about it. Wondering, maybe.

“I’m all healed up,” she says again, rolling her eyes, and he nods like he’s taking her seriously.

“Yes,” he agrees, “you are.”

_You are_ , she tells herself later, rubbing her fingers absently over the raised skin. _You’re all healed up, just like new._

 

_iii._

She should be used to it by now, the newness. Remaking herself into new forms, and it hurts every time.

It’s not like the micro-fractures leave a scar, or anything. Just bruises. Ugly deep purple radiating up her forearms, all the way to the shoulder, and it _aches_. Even with the casts on, it aches. She folds it in on herself and carries it with her.

He tells her— _the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen_ , he says, and Skye understands now how Coulson talks around things. Understands exactly what he’s saying. Bringing her here like she’s something precious, someone who should be protected while she heals, and when he pulls her into a hug, quiet and tender, it’s enough that her eyes sting.

_You’re brave_ , she thinks to herself, _you’re brave even when you’re hurting_ , and knows this: someone loves her enough to hold her this gentle.

 

_iv._

She can’t tell what hurts more: her arms or her heart. It’s— it’s just, being back. This is why she didn’t come back.

Coulson finds her the way he always does. Holding two mugs of tea, and he sets one down beside her, takes the seat opposite. Looks at her for a long moment without speaking.

“You’ve been hurting for a long time,” he says eventually. Blows on his tea. Daisy doesn’t say anything. Just shrugs. Picks up her mug as carefully as she can. Still spills a little hot tea on her thigh, makes a face.

“When I broke my leg,” Coulson says, and pauses, looks down at his mug. He has the absolute lack of expression she remembers. Picking his way delicately through the space and layers of hurt between them.

“When I broke your leg,” Daisy corrects him, and Coulson’s composure flickers.

“Yes,” he agrees. “When you broke my leg,” and it should hurt, it should feel like blame, like the guilt burning bitter the way it always does now.

It just feels like acceptance.

“They told me,” he says, and she gets the impression he's choosing his words carefully. Always does. She's missed that about him, his careful certainty. “They told me, back then, that bone heals stronger after a break.”

“Huh,” Daisy says. Sips her tea, clumsy with the casts on her wrists. Watches Coulson watching her. “What, you think I'll heal stronger?”

“You always do,” he says very seriously, and she knows he's not talking about her arms. She's broken, maybe. She broke. Picked herself up and patched herself together. She's healing strong but it feels like armor she can't crack, bone spurs that harden her into a warrior.

“Does it help? Being alone?”

She bites her lip. Doesn't answer. Could say _yes, it helps,_ and Coulson would accept it, would let her walk away again when this threat is over. Would let her do what she needs to, every time.

Her eyes burn, and she blinks. Flexes her fingers reflexively.

“You said I didn't need you,” she whispers into the silence. Doesn't look at Coulson. Can't. “That's not- I always need you. _Always_. I just don't…”

“You don't what?” he asks, very gentle, and she's heard this before, this soft tone. He is very, very good at getting people to break.

“I don't want to need anyone,” she admits. “I don’t _want_ —” and there it is, the snap of it: “Every time I need someone, they get hurt. I thought, if I—”

“That’s love, sometimes,” Coulson shrugs. “Letting yourself need someone even if you’re scared.”

She’s scared: she’s afraid of what this might mean. Healing all wrong, and she needs that armor, right now. Needs it to hold her together just a little longer.

“I’ll stay until the end of the mission,” she tells him. “Thanks for the tea.”

 

_v._

The scars are fading again, but it’s enough she hasn’t worn a tank top in a while, and then she forgets: he hasn’t seen them. Doesn’t know—

It’s hard, on this side of the Framework, to remember what’s real. A whole life lived inside a pocket universe, and Daisy thinks sometimes she started over and over, lived out possibility after possibility. There are versions of her who exist in that world with no scars at all.

When she surfaced, she’d forgotten, too, how much she was hurting. Rising back up into a body that was nothing but pain, and she’d thought, maybe, she might have healed. A body repairing itself while her mind was otherwise occupied, while she was fighting or pretending to fight or perhaps simply living out something so much simpler than this. Coulson was a teacher, she thinks. Perhaps there was a version where—

She wasn’t gone long enough for that. Came back into her body gasping, but at least she’d known where to find them all, and here they are now, a new base, a new SHIELD, something new rising up between her and Coulson and she’s not sure, yet, what the shape of it might be.

“Daisy,” Coulson says, like he’s been looking for her for a while. “Elena said you were in the gym, I wasn’t sure if—” and she catches the moment he notices the new scar. Rolls her shoulder, reaches for her sweatshirt. Doesn’t pull it on just yet.

“I didn’t know you’d been—” Coulson asks, curious. “You didn’t say. From the battle for the Playground?”

“Yes,” Daisy says, and touches her finger to it. Traces the shape of it. “I was shot.”

“By an LMD,” Coulson guesses, and Daisy nods.

“An LMD, yes,” she agrees, very careful, but Coulson’s eyes widen incrementally, and she knows he’s guessed the truth.

“I shot you.”

“It wasn’t _you_ ,” she argues. Can’t help but hear it again: Coulson— _not Coulson—_ telling her to give in, give up, to give herself over for transformation into the shape of something better. She’s spent too long losing herself to other people, is the thing. “It wasn’t you,” she says again, firmer, and Coulson tilts his head. Looks at her for just long enough that she understands what he’s not saying.

_It wasn’t you either. Have you forgiven yourself for Hive? It wasn’t you, Daisy._

“Don’t,” she says, tired. Doesn’t turn away from him; she’s working on it. Acceptance or forgiveness or something like it. “Anyway, it’s healing. It’s fine.”

“Looks like it,” he says. Steps in a little closer, reaches for her shoulder. He’s very tentative: she has to twist so that her shoulder meets his palm before he’ll touch her. It’s gentle enough she closes her eyes.

“I was afraid,” she whispers, and doesn’t finish. Feels him trail his fingertips around the edge of it, and then his lips, pressed to the scar just under her collarbone, and under his mouth, she feels brave.


End file.
